


it was in the very middle of our tragedy

by stargazingcafe



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Anxiety? just slightly, Happy Yuwin Month Fellas, M/M, Mentions of Self-deprecation, NCTmentary lowkey, This universe is just really weird shrug, Time is one strange thing, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:43:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stargazingcafe/pseuds/stargazingcafe
Summary: Sicheng is sure that Yuta’s smile could slip through its own cracks at any given time.Yuta hits rock bottom with the twinkle in Sicheng’s eyes in the spam of a coffee break.





	it was in the very middle of our tragedy

It’s bright outside as they sit on the couch across from each other, the silence in the room threading tightly together with the swirls of Sicheng’s thoughts. There’s a table between the two of them, dusty for their presence but clearly shiny and used for everybody else’s; it’s small but big enough to hold several plates and at least a person’s crossed legs. A few slivers peek out of the edges with monotony as if ignoring their friends’ constant polishing of its surface, albeit they seem out of place, like they were not really sticking out and the circumstances made it look that way. It’s brown. Not Yuta’s or Sicheng’s eyes type of brown but rather the one in their coffee and in the younger’s loose sweater. It’s in the walls, too, which are usually covered in sea blue layers thanks to Taeyong’s request early into the moving process. Sicheng guesses that right now, he’s the only one between the two who really cares -or can see- the difference in colors. 

And their coffee, on the small, dusty, disheveled table between them, is also in the middle of their distance, stirred by the air conditioner and probably Yuta’s eyes. 

He probably had something to do with its presence in the room, Sicheng thinks. It’s a very Yuta thing to give people what they want and Sicheng has never skipped an early coffee session with himself and a book, which is a sign that he, indeed, does like coffee as much as everyone says. 

 

Yuta has a lot to give. 

Sicheng stares at him after some solid two minutes of cringing subtly at the table -or the space that the table occupies- and catches him smiling to himself.

 

To Yuta, this is Sicheng under a stage’s scrutiny. 

His square-shaped smile, terribly shy and complementing of his sight boring wishes of disappearance into an inexistent spot is the quickest defense strategy that can give the other away. Yuta picks it up as soon as Sicheng says something not nearly as embarrassing to everyone else but him, and his eyes narrow a bit in instinct, and he retreats into a different state of the conversation, sometimes wrapping his arms around his torso and sinking into his seat. It only happens when there’s enough people in his space to pin him down to pressure and Yuta knows this better than most. 

Sicheng is unapologetically _free_ when he’s surrounded by tender hands and noisy hearts.

The smile he’s wearing in that moment may be in his face for a single reason and that is that he doesn’t know why Yuta’s acting the way he’s acting. 

 

The problem with Yuta’s willingness to offer and provide as if to an entire nation is that it is too big for Sicheng. And he would be fine with that any day, but this is his best friend at least and the closest person to his heart at most and he fears that the smile where he keeps the broken is running in the same direction. 

The table is still dusty but Sicheng holds onto the thought that Yuta has a different opinion on that. And the others. They might think differently of the table’s appearance as well. To Sicheng it hasn’t stopped being a forgotten piece of furniture in the midst of a revolt. The coffee mugs keep their orange tint and the coffee itself contrasts with its light vibrance; it continues on swinging from side to side and Sicheng can’t remember to wonder why neither of them is drinking it, until he focuses on the color of the mugs again and scratches his throat. 

Yuta looks up, knowing Sicheng won’t really say anything. He doesn’t. With the stare, he points at the pair of lonely beverages resting beside each other unequally and Yuta raises an eyebrow before going back to his examining of the floor.

He’s still smiling.

Sicheng is still freaking out about it.

It’s not malice, Sicheng is aware. It’s also not mischief or mockery because Yuta is always, always above that. And it’s also not the type that makes people wish they knew what he has going on because that’s something they have to keep private and because they both know that Sicheng _doesn’t_ know. The only plausible explanation is that Yuta actually knows something that Sicheng doesn’t in that exact moment. 

Sicheng almost has to lie down.

There’s no time for trivialities in their tiny tremendous bubble of existence and time is precisely what crawls out of his fingers pretentiously, flickering in and out of authenticity. And fuck Sicheng for wanting to break it in half. 

 

To Yuta, time is dragging itself out on the floor he’s watching, wounded and dead and cursing its pseudo-birth. It’s no longer there and even if he’s never felt its absence, he can’t stop contemplating how he’s run out of it to keep Sicheng at bay. The boy is sitting there, now tapping his feet against the wood and intently looking at a table that seems moderately messy to Yuta, with plates and papers and snack crumbs scattered around. The coffees are there, too, result of his desire to please Sicheng because he knows too well that he can’t resist coffee in an environment like that. What he didn’t plan, though, is that Sicheng would stay true to himself and drink only when Yuta did. 

Yuta’s not touching his mug until he breaks out of his trance of “not falling in love with Sicheng.” 

 

He’s getting nervous, maybe, and concerned, definitely. He hates the idea of coffee in the afternoon in an inviting surrounding like that one but he hates the scenario unfolding even more. 

He’s not even sure there’s a scenario unfolding. 

Sicheng’s only sure that he doesn’t want to be in a room where he’s not _wanted._ It prickles in his arms and in the skin near his left eye and in the leg he can’t stop tapping against the floor and a bit in his collarbone. 

 

Maybe if Yuta were his friend with the eyebrow cut he would feel it strongly, but Sicheng is irradiating everything but comfort from his place on the couch. 

“You can drink if you want, you know. I really don’t mind,” he speaks up, voice hoarse from the prolonged silence.

“Uh, no. No, it’s fine, really,” Sicheng replies, visibly startled and shrugging an arm.

“They’re there for you.”

 

Sicheng’s not expecting a guide on how to behave now but the brown in the table starts looking like the one in Yuta’s eyes with the taste of coffee.

He’s no longer smiling the cryptic smile, although it may be how Sicheng’s looking at it. 

 

To Yuta, is Sicheng deflating with the brown liquid settling in his throat and the twinkle in his eyes that sparks for a while before he puts the mug back on the table.

And Yuta’s only smiling to himself because Sicheng is in a room of brown lighting and orange shadows, and he’s full of affection even if he’s devoid of something else, and he’s bright with life, little specks of life, and Sicheng, Sicheng, Sicheng.

He’s only smiling because Sicheng is there with him.

**Author's Note:**

> title from [this poem](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=24282)


End file.
